


Or maybe it happened this way...

by athos



Series: Colorblind Soulmate AUs [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Drinking, Grief, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of drinking, M/M, Off-screen Character Death, Second Chance at Love, Soulmate AU, Soulmates, The Fucking Fade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2018-10-10 06:43:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10431459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athos/pseuds/athos
Summary: I started thinking about different endings for Colorblind, and wondered about Fenris' lyrium and the Fade, and how Hawke being alive still but in the Fade might affect the color sight/soulmate bond. I also wondered what might happen if someone could get another soulmate after the first had died.The result is this. The premise and beginning are the same as in Colorblind, but this is like an alternate ending, diverging when Hawke leaves Fenris for the Western Approach.Nota Bene March 2017-- I have re-posted Colorblind and this alternate ending (chapter 1) as two separate stories in a series. I have made several improvements to this chapter, so I hope you enjoy!





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This alternate ending to Colorblind diverges when Hawke leaves Fenris for the Western Approach. I've included the beginning here anyways.

 

He’d assumed for years that the ritual that had taken his memories and branded the hateful lyrium into his flesh had also taken color from him. If he’d not heard his master making references to Imperial purple or Agreggio red, if he’d not had other slaves haltingly try to explain to him what colors were, he never would have noticed their absence in his black and white existence. He was in good company, however, as color only came to one with their "soulmate" _,_  whatever nonsense that was. Slaves didn’t get soulmates.

 He overheard other slaves in Tevinter whisper about the Magisters and how they would show off their colorful vocabulary. Being with one’s soulmate was a prestigious achievement, more and more colors apparently becoming discernable as you grew closer, and of course the Magisters would endlessly outdo one another in describing their clothes ("Amaranth and copper? What was she thinking!"), the carpets (sarcoline and hoarfrost, ebony and eburnean), the clouds in the Fade (octarine), the light catching on a slave-girl’s hair (sepulchral grey), the contrast between it and her blood (crimson) as she died, gasping.

 Fenris never knew for certain whether Danarius' confident descriptions were accurate, but no one ever disputed his words. How could they--think of the social ruin if they objected and no one backed them up? What if they were revealed to be the only one feigning their color-sight? No Magister would risk the scandal.

 Many of the slaves whispered that none of the Masters could see anything, because who could have a soulmate who was so cruel?

 

***

 

When he had traveled more, he thought about how colors that so many people couldn’t see had become widely used symbolically and across lands and languages. He understood being  _green with envy_ , having  _lips like roses_  or  _a yellow streak,_  looking  _pinker than a sunburnt nug,_  having been  _beaten black and blue,_ even though he’d never seen any of those colors. He knew that people described monotonous, joyless lives as  _living grey as ghosts._ Often, cleaning blood (red, he presumed) off of his armor (coal black, Danarius had specified) after killing yet another band of slave-catchers, he wondered if he was living as grey as a ghost.

 He wondered if the color of his life mattered, while he had nothing to compare it with.

 

***

 

Free people in the City of Chains spoke of color vision much as the Magisters had. People were the same everywhere. Fenris wondered what color tedium was, and wished that instead of soulmates, one gained colors when their mission was completed--he was far more likely to kill Danarius than to meet a soulmate. Thoughts of color, however, were an idle pastime. He’d never believed in soulmates, and believed less and less in colors at all. The romantic idea that one’s vision would magically become enhanced if you met someone who was magically destined to make your life complete sounded more and more like something a Magister or King had invented, something unverifiable, unprovable, serving no purpose other than to make them feel superior to others. The hope of colors was simply another chain used by the powerful to to distract the powerless from their misery.

 Late one evening in Kirkwall’s alienage, the dusty ground littered with the corpses of the slave-catchers he’d flushed out, Fenris raised his head and eyes to meet those of a human warrior, and in a blinding and life-altering instant he realized how terribly wrong he'd been and understood  **everything** _._

 

***

 

Having color-vision was disorienting, to say the least. Fortunately Hawke’s eclectic band included a few who had genuinely experienced color: the brusque Aveline who always looked at the shield she bore (even though she'd been offered better shields), the smirking Varric who laughed and stroked his crossbow, and the mage who clenched his jaw and hid his hands to hide their shaking but never looked away quickly enough to hide his tears. Fenris preferred to save his questions for Leandra Hawke, who patiently explained with memories shared in a wistful voice. With Hawke's companions, Fenris named new colors: a particular shiny almost-metallic orange was  _Aveline's hair_ ; off-white with feelings of patience and optimism was  _Sebastian's armor_ ; a beautiful and warm brown was  _Isabela after a swim_ ;  _Abomination's eyes_  was not Fenris' favorite color, and he never understood why Hawke was so patient when they all saw it; the color gradient from tan-pink to pinched white was  _smug dwarf who had better keep his damned mouth shut_ ; later, the malevolent, wrong, pulsing red of  _stone Meredith_.

 Some colors he and Hawke worked out for themselves, special colors known only to the two of them: a special shade of pinked flesh would always be  _Hawke’s flushed chest before orgasm_ , a semi-transparent blue-white was _Fenris’ markings during sex_. Also while killing Tevinter slavers, Hawke cheekily observed. Fenris blandly responded that one act was nearly as satisfying as the other.

 He and Hawke didn’t always get along, and Fenris sometimes wondered if the bond between soulmates could break, if a sufficiently heated argument could turn his vision--his life--colorless again. Varric and Leandra reassured him that no, that wasn’t possible. Once gained, the only way for someone to lose their ability to see color was for their soulmate to die.

 Never, Fenris thought, his greatsword (silverite grey and shimmering with enchantment blue) cleaving the Arishok’s torso (flat grey shiny with sweat and spattered with sanguine flecks) in two, the Qunari’s great warhammer (serpentstone green  with chartreuse ribbons tied to the end to distract his foe) crashing to the floor (ugly dusty beige and rotted leaf brown, darkened with spilled wine and yet more blood). His eyes (emerald green, Hawke said) met Hawke’s (joy, welcome, love, home). Never.

 Never.

 

***

 

After Kirkwall his life resumed the course it was on before Kirkwall--travel, free slaves, kill slavers. Now, however, Fenris had Hawke with him. The Fenris who lived life as grey as a ghost was long past, and they were happy together.

 Rumors and growing strife darkened their days, but for all the growing shadows the colors they saw with each other were no less saturated. They stayed steps ahead of the Inquisition, warned by Varric’s correspondences (written in deep violet ink from Rivaini squids and sealed with eye-catching indigo wax swirled with gold) and their own good sense. When Hawke became concerned about the Grey Wardens, the two of them had established a small, self-sustained village of freed elven slaves. Fenris accompanied Hawke to snow-bright Skyhold and to miserable Crestwood, but he drew the line at the bleached desert of the Western Approach. Just as well that he stay, as some of his neighbors’ former masters hadn’t taken kindly to being deprived of their toys, and Fenris again had the unique joy of killing arrogant slave-catchers and teaching his companions the most efficient ways to do so.

Fenris instructed Hawke to shake down Varric for the silver the dwarf still owed him from their last game of Wicked Grace before Isabela set sail with Merrill. “And don’t take all season about it,” he finished with a stern look.

Hawke kissed him and said, “I love you, too, Fenris.”

Teaching the elves to live independent from masters kept Fenris busy, and he suspected some of them were inventing tasks or feigning confusion in their lessons to prevent him from brooding overmuch on Hawke’s absence. One morning he was oiling his sword, absently watching the sun-bronzed children running around chasing blue nuglings. The Blade of Mercy in his hands, its point braced on the vividly green grass at his bare, dirt-smudged feet, was far from the most colorful weapon Hawke had given him, but the half-dozen shades of grey were still appealing. More than the weapon’s appearance, Fenris enjoyed the irony of using it.

Because his eyes were unfocused, mind wandering, hands going through the relaxing, familiar motions, it took him a moment to realize that something was different. The sword he held was clear, edges appropriately sharp in his vision, but the grass and his green-stained feet were...blurry. Wavering in and out of focus in uneven intervals. He held his right hand up to his face, the oil-saturated rag (dark streaks on dull tan--no, on dull grey? The rag was brown again) and Blade of Mercy falling from his lap as he stood. In his vision he saw familiar white lines on skin that was, at once, both familiar chestnut brown and sullen grey. His sudden panic manifested in a surge of _(Fenris killing slavers)_ white light that halted conversations and activity throughout the small community. Fenris blinked, several times, willing his heart to calm.

In the silence that followed, Anhaar cautiously approached, his grey hands (had Anhaar always been grey? His skin was naturally grey, wasn’t it?) held open in front of him; the Tal-Vashoth was clearly trying to appear non-threatening. “Fenris?”

Fenris startled and looked up from his hands and into eyes that he knew should be sea-glass green, but instead were grey with pulses of familiar color. “Hawke,” he croaked, fear tightening his throat. “Something’s happened to Hawke.”

Meriette approached. “Fenris, what are you feeling?” she asked, drying her hands on an apron that was both pink and grey, the new _vallaslin_ on her face _Isabella in torchlight_ and then flat black on her fair skin.

“Something’s happened to Hawke,” Fenris repeated, trying to step forward but stumbling, disoriented by his changing vision.

“How do you know?” Anhaar asked reasonably.

“Your vision goes back to black-and-white when your soulmate dies, and mine,” he paused, a distant part of him amused to hear the Tevene expletive from Anhaar’s lips. He took a deep breath and continued, “Mine, I-- I see colors, but they’re different. I see only black and white, sometimes,” he admitted, “and the colors I see are wrong.”

“I’m getting Elahi,” Meriette said. Fenris went to refuse but again Anhaar stopped him, herded him back to sit without ever touching him. The grey warrior (yes, Anhaar _was_ grey, and his horns were _Aveline copper,_ he could see that clearly now; Hawke wasn’t dead) knelt in front of Fenris and held his gaze. “Just wait, Fenris. Elahi might know something, and then you can go.”

Keeper Elahi had somehow kept most of her clan together after they had been enslaved; Fenris had followed Hawke’s advice and never asked how. The wizened and scarred matriarch stood well away from Fenris, aware of his discomfort around her, and he answered her questions tersely, growing more and more impatient. Finally he put a stop to it. “Do you know what this means?” he demanded.

She frowned. “The only lore I have heard similar to this concerns the soulmates of Dreamers. It is said that the Dreamer’s soulmate would have ‘disturbed vision’ when their love was in the Fade. I always thought it was exaggeration to caution Dreamers against spending too much time in the Fade instead of the real world, lest they cause their beloved anguish.”

Fenris barely heard the second part of her explanation over the roaring in his ears. The Fade. The _fucking_ Fade. What had the Wardens done to send Hawke there? Fenris would kill them all, make them regret their folly, tear their hearts from their chests--

“Fenris!” Anhaar shouted, shaking him. Fenris snarled and batted away his friend’s hand. Meriette was leading Keeper Elahi back to the houses. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to the Western Approach and I’m going to bring Hawke back. No,” he glared up at Anhaar’s concerned (green - grey - green - grey - Hawke, _please!_ \- green) gaze, “you’ll slow me down.” He strode into the dwelling he shared with Hawke and began shoving travel tac and potions into a pack. A flash of scarlet caught his eye; he looked up at the well-worn silk that had been Hawke’s first real gift to him. When he reached for it and held it in his hand, the cloth wasn’t red anymore.

His departure happened so quickly that most of their community didn’t know Fenris had left until well after he was gone. Anhaar reassured him that he’d keep everyone safe until he and Hawke returned. Fenris ran west, energy surging through the lyrium in his flesh. He kept off the Imperial highway but parallel to it, keen to avoid interruptions and grudgingly aware that the Imperium had paved the fastest route overland. West of Val Firmin he set off straight towards the old Warden outpost Hawke described, unaware of his surroundings except to determine he was alone and that he still saw flashes of _(Hawke is alive, still alive!)_ color.

Barely minutes into the Approach, he ran over the top of a tawny sand dune and into a Venatori camp. Yelling a battle-cry over their shouts of alarm he drew his sword and bisected the stalker reaching for her daggers (her blood _ALIVE!_ red), struck down the two gladiators who were foolish to rely on the  enamel of their shields ( _ALIVE!_ snowfleur blue) because he simply phased his sword through them and rematerialized it to cut into their bodies, and finally pushed through the Spellbinder’s barrier ( _ALIVE!_ crackling green) and crushed the mage’s heart in his ( _ALIVE!_ purple-shrouded) chest. His gauntlet was black with blood when he removed his arm from the mage’s limp body and looked to the dark sky above to regain his bearings. He identified the bright white lights of Toth in the black sky and lurched into a run…

...only to fall flat on his face in the beige-grey sand. All at once he felt his body’s weakness, the spiteful betrayal of exhaustion dragging him down. He needed another potion. He groped at the pack on his back, fatigue blurring his vision as he felt the rim of a bottle and drew it out. Empty. Fenris tore the bag from his back and ripped it open. All empty. It couldn’t be; he had to get to Hawke, there had to be something. He hauled himself over to a Venatori lockbox and crushed the lock in his fist. It was full of sealed bottles, and he grabbed one. Shouldn’t it be glowing? He couldn’t tell which was which. They were all grey.

No.

No, he had seen the Venatori’s red blood (it was black now, like all blood in the night); he had _seen_ the fiery green of the mage’s barrier (the mage was dead; that’s why he couldn’t see it now). He turned the bottle in his shaking hands and saw a worn label with the sigil that he remembered as ‘poison’ and threw the glass away in disgust.

He managed to get to his knees and stumbled back over his torn pack and the empty bottles. The Venatori must have food for themselves; their own food wouldn’t be poisoned. He froze climbing over his pile of empty stamina potions when his hand felt a familiar but unexpected texture. Hawke’s red silk favor. Fenris knew it was red, even though it looked black now. It was _red._ It just looked black because it was dark; even the brightness of Toth wasn’t enough to illuminate the dark red in the middle of a desert night. He heard himself gasping for breath, a strange, high pitched whine staining the desert silence in time with it. Some dying animal, perhaps. Soon a predator would put it out of its noisy misery.

Desperately he flared his hated markings, focusing the energy in his left hand and holding it over the favor held gently in his right. His vision blurred again, and he blinked away tears. He didn’t have time for this; he needed to _see_ the red of Hawke’s favor to him. He needed to see the red _(warpaint smeared across Hawke’s devilishly crooked nose),_ and once he saw it he would rest just enough to get to his feet and he would find Hawke and scare the life out of the idiot Wardens who brought him here and yell at Varric for endangering their friend.

The light from his markings were white as usual, and he looked expectantly, then accusingly, at the silk in his hand and waited for the grey time to pass. Any moment now, he’d see color again; he’d see the truth uninterrupted by Keeper Elahi’s “disturbed vision”.

The silk never showed the color Fenris knew it to be, even though he kept his lyrium burning on it until its light flickered out and his depleted body slumped, unconscious, grey darkening to black.

 

***

 

Fenris dreamed he heard Varric’s voice reassuring him, telling him that he was safe, in a wagon on the way to Skyhold. Absurd! Fenris didn’t want to go to Skyhold, not when Hawke was stuck in the Fade. The Fade! He was dreaming, and in the Fade! Maybe he would find Hawke here. He pushed at the direction of Varric’s voice, pushed him away. Varric couldn’t help him because dwarves couldn’t dream.

The persistent dream-dwarf tried again, told Fenris that they couldn’t go back. “But Hawke,” Fenris objected, his voice cracked and hoarse, distorted by the Fade. He didn’t know why his throat hurt, but everything was strange in the Fade; the living were not meant to go there, which was why, “...we have to get Hawke out of there, Varric.” Fenris pushed, again; if the damned dwarf wasn’t going to help him, Fenris would go alone. “No, stay still--” a new voice, a demon! Fenris flared his markings and lashed out, felt his fist impact something (why isn’t the lyrium working) and, through the muffling haze of a sleep spell, heard Varric talking to the demon, “Shit, Chuckles, are you okay?”

 

***

 

Fenris opened his eyes and blinked away the small bits of crust from his eyelids. High above him was a grey stone ceiling. He felt a cool breeze on his face and exposed left hand, felt soft wool keeping his body warm atop the firm mattress he lay on. The sharp scents of elfroot and rashvine cut through the background of dusty fall leaves. He heard the particular stillness of an unoccupied room around him and, coming through the open window, the distant din of practicing soldiers. He swallowed, grimacing at the stale traces of potion and strange, indefinable mouth-feel that followed extensive healing.

He turned his head and moved his gaze from the grey stone ceiling to the grey stone wall to the grey wood table and grey books and scrolls on it. The chair next to his bed was upholstered with a grey plaidweave pattern, and the worn grey rug on the grey stone floor depicted grey stylized mabari running after grey stylized deer. The greys swam in his suddenly watery vision, shades and hues of grey blurring together and he closed his eyes, struck with the undeniable proof that Hawke was dead and overcome with unbearable grief.

 

***

 

The next time Fenris opened his eyes, everything was still grey, but this time he knew better than to look for color. He turned his head to the chair to find it occupied by an old, exhausted-looking dwarf. He seemed to have fallen asleep on the chair, and Fenris wondered if he had been ill and, if so, why he was in a chair and not a bed. Why was a dwarf elder here at all? Was Fenris so pathetic now that no one felt a need to guard him, and that this drained, sad little man with dark bags under his closed eyes was sufficient to restrain him? Or were they in Skyhold, and he wasn’t being guarded? Perhaps the old dwarf was meant to keep him company.

But if that were the case, why wasn’t it Varric, the only person in Skyhold that Fenris knew? Unless his friend were lost to the Fade as well.

Fenris moved his limbs slightly, satisfied that they moved at all. He raised his arm to lift up the blanket and sit up, and the sound and movement woke the old dwarf. Fenris froze at his companion’s snort of surprise and looked at him. The dwarf blinked several times and ran thick hands roughly over his face. He looked terrible. Or was that just because Fenris wasn’t used to life being grey again?

The dwarf noticed Fenris. “Broody!” he exclaimed in a rough voice, a smile weakly lifting his face.

Fenris stared at him. Only one dwarf called him that.

The dwarf frowned, looked concerned and leaned slightly forward in the chair. He held his big hands out where they were clearly visible and non-threatening, and Fenris remembered Anhaar. “Broody… Fenris, do you remember me?”

Fenris shut his jaw once he noticed it had been hanging slack. “Are you--” he began, voice thick with disuse and dismay. “You’re Varric.”

“Yeah,” Varric confirmed, looking less concerned. “Shit, I thought for a moment you might have lost your memories. Again. And, uh,” he stopped and ran a hand through messy grey hair. “After I went to all the trouble of telling you all my best stories, I’d hate to have to do it again.”

“You lie, dwarf,” Fenris stated. Varric’s face fell, but Fenris forced a small smirk. “You’d love nothing more than to talk my ears off.”

Varric barked out a laugh. “You little shit.”

Fenris tried to laugh, but the corners of his lips were weighed down. “I didn’t recognize… I’ve never seen you like this before.”

“What, tired and harried? Maybe you haven’t noticed, but it’s the end of the world.”

Fenris shook his head. “Grey.”

Varric’s relieved smile faltered and he cleared his throat. “We found you at the edge of the Approach, surrounded by Venatori corpses. The bodies looked like they’d been there a few days. You were,” Varric cleared his throat again and looked away. “You were almost dead, Broody. It took Chuckles and Ma’am a lot of mana and potions to bring you back. You were really out of it on the way back here.”

“Should I bother learning these peoples’ actual names?”

“Yeah, but not now. Broody, how did you know?” There was no confusion about what Varric referred to.

Fenris threw off the blankets (grey), relieved to see that he was clothed in (lighter grey) trousers, at least, and swung his (dark grey) bare feet onto the (grey) comfortable if worn rug he had noticed earlier. “My vision changed. It wasn’t black and white, not all the time, but the colors were wrong, distorted. Sometimes they were fine, but I knew something was wrong. The Dalish Keeper in our village said something about Dreamers and the Fade--Varric.” Fenris gripped the dwarf's thick wrist tightly and growled, “What. The fuck. Were you doing. In the _fucking_ Fade?”

Varric relaxed his arm and his mouth twisted in a grimace. Fenris could almost smell the bitterness in his words. “It was an accident. An accident that prevented all of us from splattering on the bottom of a cliff, and while we were there we got good information but then there was a huge fuck-off demon. A Nightmare. _The_ Nightmare. Allied with Corypheus, feeding on the fear of Thedas. The Inquisitor was able to open a Rift out and he and Hawke and Stroud were the rear-guard, keeping the Nightmare off us. They yelled at us to go through, and I thought they were right behind me. Hawke was right behind me,” he finished in a whisper.

Fenris smiled mirthlessly. “Sounds like Hawke.”

“Yeah.”

They were silent for several minutes. Varric took a deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips. “We found--” he began, his voice so thick with grief that he was barely intelligible; the difference between how Varric sounded now and how Fenris remembered Varric’s voice was as disorienting and painful as the difference in his appearance. “We found this in your hand. It looked familiar.” Varric dropped something in Fenris’ half-open hand. “I know you’re not the sentimental type, but I thought you might want to have it.”

Fenris’ relentlessly grey vision swam again as he looked down at the favor. The immutably grey fabric was darkened with something--dirt? blood?--and wrinkles were deeply pressed into it where he’d clutched it in his hand as though holding on to it would keep Hawke with him. Hawke. _Hawke._

He’d never see _Hawke-blue_ eyes again, or _Hawke-flushed_ skin, or _Hawke war-paint-red_ that cracked under the force of their kisses. He’d never see flakes of it in the most peculiar places after they were done… He’d never see any of those colors again, and he’d never feel Hawke’s skin, run his fingers through Hawke’s hair, hear Hawke’s snorts of amusement or fierce battle-cries or gasps of completion, never have to complain about Hawke smelling like the _dog_ because Hawke would never sleep with the damned thing again, never let the beast on _his_ side of the bed, never again force _Fenris_ to be the strict one if he wanted to sleep… Fenris felt hot tears fall down his salt-stained cheeks. How had he taken these things for granted?

Varric, apparently needing to do something, awkwardly patted Fenris’ shoulder. Fenris heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and people coming through the door. He knew the silk in his hand would forever be grey, knew there was no sensible reason to keep staring, but he couldn’t muster the energy to look anywhere else.

“Varric, how is…” a faintly familiar woman’s voice.

“Awake, Sister Nightingale, as you can see. Listen, uh, I don’t know if you knew, but--”

“Apologies,” a rich voice interrupted. “We got detained by...long story. How is he?”

“As well as can be expected. Broody, I’d like to introduce you to Leliana, The Iron Bull,” Fenris saw in his peripheral vision that Varric was gesturing to a woman, then a Qunari, “and Inquisitor Trevelyan.”

The last man Varric introduced stepped closer so that Fenris could see his black polished boots on the colorless rug before him. “I understand you were great friends,” Trevelyan offered, his sincerity clear in his voice. “I genuinely wish I’d been able to get to know Hawke better.”

Fenris took a deep breath and looked up to meet the man Hawke had died for. Hawke had believed in him, in the Inquisition; the least Fenris could do was look up into the richest brown eyes he had ever seen.

Trevelyan gasped, “Maker!” and stepped back unsteadily. “Your eyes!”

Fenris’s heart stuttered in his chest.

“Boss?” The Iron Bull asked cautiously. “You ok?”

Trevelyan whispered, “I’ve never seen anything so…” He steadied himself on the Qunari’s proffered hand and looked up at him. “What the fuck?” he exclaimed at Bull. He looked down at Bull’s aggressively yellow plaidweave pants and recoiled. “What the _fuck?”_

“Inquisitor?” Leliana asked.  

“Oh, shit,” muttered Varric.

Fenris stared at Trevelyan’s freckled skin, tiny brown dots scattered like constellations over smooth skin on a handsome face, rich red hair that glowed in the warm sunlight streaming in through the window, brightly colored but sensible clothes around a fit form.

“My eyes,” Trevelyan began, rubbing at them. “I… Is this color?” He looked around the room, mouth open as he looked around his transformed world, but his eyes kept coming back, as though drawn like moth to a flame, to meet Fenris’.

“Oh, _shit,_ ” Varric swore emphatically, but it seemed no one paid him any attention.

A tiny smile graced Leliana’s delicate features. “If your vision now includes colors, it seems that the two of you are soulmates,” she observed brightly.

“Hot damn, Boss!” The Iron Bull slapped a huge hand on Trevelyan’s shoulder, staggering the man. “Drinks are on me tonight!”

Fenris looked down, briefly. The cloth clutched in his trembling hand was still dull, dismal, dead grey. He raised his head at Trevelyan’s unsteady voice.

“Maker, I-- I did not expect this, but I can’t say I’m disappointed,” Trevelyan murmured, awe clearly in his words.

His smile took Fenris’ breath away, and bitter acid rose up in his throat.

Trevelyan continued, shaking his head in wonder, still smiling as though this were the best day of his life. “I never imagined my soulmate would be so _beautiful.”_

“Ginger,” Varric cautioned tightly, “Now is _really_ not a good time!”

“What are you talking about, Varric? This is great.”

“Tiny, you need to get him _out_ of here.”

“Why?” “Varric?” Fenris heard the words, but the eyes that were not Hawke’s eyes kept him arrested, the tremors in his body growing stronger and stronger. Not Hawke’s. Not Hawke’s. His blood rushed in his ears and lyrium glowed. _Not. Hawke._

“Because _Hawke_ was Fenris’ soulmate!”

Fenris roared in enraged denial and lunged at Trevelyan, tearing him to the floor and hitting him, lashing out with his fists, screaming, “No! NO! Not you!” He dimly heard cries of outrage behind him, around him, but all he could see was the wrong face, the wrong eyes, the wrong _colors_ in front of him. “You can’t!” Fenris saw the red of his wrong soulmate’s split lip, the blood from it, covering part of the imposter’s face and he needed more of it. “You’re not Hawke! Never!” Darker red splashed over his hatefully vivid vision with each blow he landed on the finally protesting man under him, and yes, Trevelyan _should_ fight! He should fight for his _life_ because Fenris would never accept this, never, “Never! You can’t! I am NOT YOURS!” He’d never give up Hawke without a fight; what had he been thinking?

A blow to the back of his head stunned him, and as he fell bonelessly to one side he laughed, a strange and hysterical deja-vu washing over him, but this time instead of grey becoming black, it was red, red, red...red...black.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris wakes up and and nothing's better. 
> 
>  
> 
> (there's gonna be a happy ending, I promise!)

 

 

Fenris awoke in a building that smelled like horses and clean hay. His head ached, and the wall opposite him had a painting of blue, green and white. He closed his eyes. There was someone sitting to his right, and someone else standing against a pillar a few yards further back. When he opened his eyes again the painting was still colorful, though the blue and green didn’t seem as...well. Maybe he just couldn’t remember. He stared at the painting and wished that he could not see it at all.

“Broody…”

Fenris knew that Varric would not stop until he said something. “Dwarf.”

“What do you remember?”

Fenris turned his head to look at Varric. His old friend looked much better, but Fenris was unsure whether his condition had actually improved, or whether the familiarity of his tanned skin, auburn hair, gold jewelry, dark chest hair framed by a red tunic and brown-and-gold belt just made him _seem_ more like Varric.

He took the cup of water Varric offered and replied, “I remember Hawke is dead. I remember meeting your Inquisitor. I can see color again.” His voice was rougher than usual, and his throat felt raw. He forced his hand to stop shaking and took a sip of the cool water from the clay-brown cup. “I remember attacking him.”

The man standing behind Varric snorted eloquently. He was a tall human with greying black hair and a forked beard who wore a quilted blue tunic with silver stitching.

Varric’s lips quirked to the side in a half-smile. “You sure did. Probably not the first soul-binding that began with blows, but--”

“No,” Fenris interrupted flatly.

Varric sighed heavily. “Broody, you can’t ignore this.”

“I do not want anyone else. I want _Hawke.”_ Part of him knew that he was being immature, but Fenris could not overcome the feeling of profoundest betrayal: betrayal from Varric who had convinced Hawke to leave him; betrayal from this Inquisitor who had forced, unsought and unwelcome, an intimate connection anyone else would be grateful for ; finally, betrayal from Hawke who... “We were supposed to die together, fighting _together,_ Varric,” he whispered.

For several moments, the only sounds were of the horses below them. Then the man behind Varric shifted and walked into Fenris’ line of sight. “Look, ‘Broody’, is it?”

“Fenris,” he sharply corrected. ‘Broody’ was Varric’s, and Fenris would not permit any more of this Inquisition to take what did not belong to them! He was ‘Broody’ to Varric alone, and he saw color for… he was...confused. He stopped glaring at the human and dropped his gaze to the dusty wood-brown floor. Whoever heard of someone having two soulmates?

“Fenris, then,” the man emphasized with a slight, condescending smirk that Fenris wanted to claw off of his bearded face. “Listen, Varric tells us you can get out of any prison we put you in, even if Trevelyan _wanted_ you incarcerated which, for some stupid reason, he doesn’t--”

“Hero, watch it!”

The man ignored Varric. “We need to know if you’re going to attack the Inquisitor again.”

Fenris met his disapproving frown with a flat stare of his own. “No.”

‘Hero’ scoffed. “Just like that, then?”

Fenris slowly sat upright. It made his headache worse, but he was not inclined to take this man’s snide scepticism lying down. _“Fasta vass,_ Varric! Who hit me?” he grumbled, gingerly feeling the back of his head with his cold fingertips. The lump there was smaller than the scale of his headache suggested.

Varric chuckled and waved a rusty red healing potion at Fenris. “ _That_ would be Tiny and his not-tiny broadsword. Listen, Fenris, seriously--we need to know that you’re not going to do anything rash again.”

“Like beating the face off the most important person in Thed--”

“Dammit, Hero, stuff it!”

Fenris shook his head slowly, careful not to aggravate his headache with the motion. “I will not hurt anyone who does not seek to harm me.”

Varric frowned and opened his mouth to speak but Fenris rolled his eyes and said, “You have my word, on Danarius’ blighted, fetid corpse, that I will not hurt your Inquisitor.”

‘Hero’ and Varric exchanged glances. Varric shrugged and handed the potion to Fenris.

“I suppose that’s enough,” the human grumbled, leaving them.

Grimacing at the odor, Fenris muttered under his breath, “I cannot hurt him if I never see him again.”

 

* * *

 

As he left the barn, Varric motioned for Blackwall to join him and they slowly walked up the wide stairs to Skyhold’s main courtyard.  Trevelyan sat with Cassandra in a shaded corner past the sparring ring, looking down at the grass as though he’d never seen it before. Varric remembered how he’d stared for an entire afternoon at a small window box of flowers, some time during that first week.

Varric could hear their words as he and Blackwall approached: “Do you have any advice for me, Cassandra?”

She sighed. “No, nothing. I am sorry, friend.”

Trevelyan looked up at their approach and squinted, taking a moment to decide where to rest his eyes. Varric knew he’d be disoriented for a while, frowning and staring at everyday things--except they weren’t ‘everyday’ anymore, were they? Trevelyan’s whole world had changed, and instead of a joyful celebration of the new sight given by the soul-bond, Trevelyan was shunned, alone, trying to make sense of things with only half the picture.

Eventually he met Varric’s gaze and said accusingly, “Fenris and Hawke were soulmates, eh? You didn’t put _that_ in your Tale of the Champion.”

Varric grimaced. Cassandra said quietly, “There is a lot he did not put in his book.”

Varric, suddenly out of patience with sustained stress and heartbreak, took a quick breath to snap at her but caught himself when he saw the sympathy and sadness in her eyes. She shared a small almost-smile with him and continued, “It is not Varric’s fault.”

He answered her half-smile in kind.

Trevelyan dropped his gaze to the less-complicated grass, and Blackwall muttered, “Varric and the Seeker agreeing? Maker, what a mess.”

 

* * *

 

Varric tried, with maddening persistence, to draw him out to explore Skyhold and meet more of the Inner Circle, but Fenris was not interested. Two others had approached him: he learned that ‘Hero’ was a Grey Warden named Blackwall, but Fenris suspected that he was only being friendly because they shared the same barn, and a strange city elf offered him cookies and asked for ‘pranking material’ on Varric. She also announced that he was, “an elf, right? But obviously not an elfy-elf. Soddin’ kick-ass elf, ‘s more like,” and he stared at her, having no idea how to respond. When he said nothing, she huffed and took back the uneaten cookie from his hand.

Indeed, aside from sharing small meals with Varric, who acted as though Fenris could not feed himself without hearty and chatty companionship, Fenris stayed in bed and slept as much as possible. Not only to avoid running into his-- _the_ Inquisitor, but because if he slept, he might dream. If he dreamed, if he entered the Fade, he might find Hawke and somehow fix all this. When simply recovering from his brush with death no longer exhausted him enough to sleep all day, he went to the top floor of the barn and pushed his endurance with katas and exercises, flaring his lyrium in ways that provided more resistance instead of less, until he could barely drag his abused body to his pallet and surrender to unconsciousness.

One night--day?--Fenris found himself walking a confused, muddy path. He got the sense that he had been on the path for some time, and was going in circles. “Hawke!” he yelled. It seemed he had been yelling forever.

“Hawke is not here, Fenris.”

Fenris spun around and narrowed his eyes at the tall, bone-pale elf before him, clearly comfortable in their environment in a way only a mage could be. He seemed _almost_ familiar, but Fenris didn’t know his name. “And how would you know, mage?” he rudely asked.

The elf shook his bald head and repeated, “Hawke is not here. And the longer you try to remain here in the Fade, searching in vain, the more dangerous spirits your desperation will summon.”

Without thinking, Fenris bared his teeth and, when the other elf smiled faintly at the expression, snarled. Recklessly he challenged, “And what of it? I am no mage to be possessed.”

Pity? In this _mage’s_ eyes? Unbearable. “Spirits--demons, under these circumstances--can possess non-mages as well; they simply are not ‘abominations’, as the Chantry names them. In any case, should a demon possess you, not only would you become a considerable danger to everyone in Skyhold, but you yourself would perish.”

Fenris glowered at him.

The mage continued, stalking closer. “Is that what you want, Fenris? To die? To leave your soulmate alive, alone and adrift as Hawke left you?”

Fenris recoiled, stung by the sharply-spoken words. Before he could refute them or defend Hawke, the other elf--no longer any hint of pity in his eyes--stopped a mere two handspans away from him. “Because that is what you are doing, Fenris. The only difference is that Hawke did not come here _intending_ to die. From what I have been told, Hawke fought and fought and sacrificed themself only when there was no other option.”

He stepped closer still to Fenris, who stood mutely. “You, Fenris! You have options. You may choose to look no further than your own death, but doing so without considering your better alternatives would be tragically misguided.” He turned to walk away but paused and looked back at Fenris. “If it is your decision to die, I humbly request that you seek out a method that will endanger only yourself. I have better things to do in the Fade than keep a child safe from demons.”

Watching him withdraw, Fenris finally found his tongue and his feet. He surged forward and demanded, “ _Fenhedis_ , mage! Now see here--”

The elf-mage whirled around, raising his hand and halting Fenris in his tracks (though Fenris could not say whether he stopped because of some spell or his own surprise at being confronted so boldly). Then he said in a voice that resonated with power, “You will wake, and you will **remembe** r.”

Fenris awoke to the sound of fabric tearing and looked down at his hands, straining against ripped sheets. Particles of pink lint from the torn fabric blended with the white motes of dust in the barn, and they floated in and out of shafts of light from between the wooden slats of the building. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and put his bare, brown feet on the blue-ish and yellow-ish rug beneath him. It wasn’t cold in the barn, but he shivered nonetheless and remembered.

 

* * *

 

After that Fenris stopped sleeping to excess, but spent much of his time instead simply staring out a window. He supposed that, objectively, Skyhold was beautiful--he remembered Hawke waxing eloquent about ashlar masonry and old architecture. He recalled smiling at the sun shining through yellowing green leaves, pleased to be able to take a moment to enjoy the sight. The same leaves were still colored, but not as vibrantly as he remembered.

It had been two days since Varric had last suggested that he talk to his--dammit, _the_ Inquisitor. Thrice the man had approached the barn, spoken to Blackwall, obviously stalling before cautiously mounting the stairs to approach Fenris. Each time Fenris, sharpening his sword at the top of the staircase, had pointedly turned his back on Trevelyan and tried to ignore how difficult it was to do so. He knew it was rude, appallingly so, practically unheard of with one’s… he couldn’t even bring himself to _think_ the word, regardless of how he subconsciously thought of Trevelyan as--

No. Not Hawke. That was why the colors were wrong; that was why they were not as bright, as saturated, as full of joy and life and wonder as they had been with his _real_ soulmate. Why should he settle for any less than what he had with Hawke?

This dull, dimmed color-sight was worse than being grey, because he could see enough color to remember when things were better, were _right._ Maybe if he were seeing colors as he remembered them, it wouldn’t be so bad. He could have pretended that Hawke was just...still away, travelling temporarily, and not dead forever. Instead he had a second, imposter soul-mate that he did not want and this blighted, half-color vision which did nothing but evoke what had been taken from him, unnecessarily enhance his awareness of what he had lost.

He knew there was a tavern in Skyhold. He wondered if Agreggio Pavali was the same purple that he remembered or if it, too, would be a bitter disappointment.

 

***

 

“Really? You’re taking Ma’am with Sera?” Bull asked dubiously, watching Trevelyan drain his third giant mug of ale and wave over for a fourth.

Trevelyan waited to reply until he had it in hand. “Need someone who c’n pick locks. Vivienne’ll tolerate Sera better’n Cole.” He raised the mug and gulped from it like the key to defeating Corypheus was hidden at the bottom. Three swallows later, he lowered the mug, gasping as one does when one forgets that breathing is more important than drinking. He peered dubiously into the mug. “Has it always been this...weird color?” He angled the mug differently. “What is this color, anyhow?”

Bull frowned. It wasn’t as if the house ale was anything special, but as a mercenary he felt a professional obligation to encourage greater appreciation for any drink that wasn’t made of literal nug-shit. Trevelyan was drinking too much, too quickly for it to be healthy.

He snorted at himself. Not like Trevelyan didn’t have a legitimate reason to drink, but he’d never been this careless the night before a mission.

“And Varric?” he asked. Trevelyan waved the mostly-empty mug at Cabot, who had turned to get another refill before Bull could wave him off.

Trevelyan belched long and low, and the Chargers cheered and applauded from a few tables over. “He _insists_ on staying here wif Ffff…” he slurred, burped again, “with _him._ Doesn’ wanna leave him alone.” He dragged the fresh mug closer to him, holding it to his chest, and muttered into it, “Must be nice.”

Bull was about to say something when the door opened and “him” entered the tavern. Fenris quickly scanned the room with a flat expression but his eyes stuck on Trevelyan even while his face kept turning. Bull could see the elf’s ear darken in a flush, and Fenris turned resolutely away and walked up to the bar.

Bull turned back to distract Trevelyan, but he’d already seen Fenris. Trevelyan’s face… his eyes were wide, as though to soak up as much of the sight as he could, and were filling with bright tears; his mouth was slightly open, caught between calling out and trying to snap shut, and his jaw trembled under the opposing impulses; his lips trembled as well, as though barely holding back speech. He leaned forward on the bench and reached out with his unmarked hand, not enough to get anyone’s attention but Bull’s, yet enough to knock over the already-empty fifth mug. Bull heard Fenris speak softly with Cabot and could have sworn that Trevelyan’s ears twitched toward the sound, even though he was no elf.

A full minute Trevelyan perched thus, his tension a taut wire strung through him. Bull watched him silently, watched Fenris take the big bottle of ‘Vint wine and quickly leave the tavern without looking back at them. Trevelyan’s eyes followed him hopelessly and his lips twisted in a bitter grimace when the tavern door slammed shut. With the usual ironic dexterity of a drunk person who shouldn’t be drunk, he snagged another tankard from a passing tray, sat back down heavily and drank deeply from it.

Koslun’s balls. “Hey, Boss, do you want me to go after him? Talk to him?”

Trevelyan came up for a breath and wiped froth from his frown. “Why push it?” he asked too loudly, either heedless or unashamed of the tear falling down his cheek. “He got another soulmate. If he can ignore m--” his words caught on something in his throat and he coughed. With careful articulation he continued, “If _we_ can ignore _each other,_ m’be I’ll get another one, too. M’be I’ll… I’ll...” The metal tankard fell with a dull thud onto the table and Trevelyan’s unconscious head quickly followed it. Bull poked him in the side, verifying that he was out cold, and sighed heavily.

“What a fucking shit-show.”

 

* * *

 

Fenris felt freer to venture out of the barn when Trevelyan was away, and he spent a considerable amount of time in the Library. The aching reminder of Hawke’s patient tutelage and encouragement was moderated by the soothing dichromatism of black ink on beige parchment; combined with engrossment in the material, it allowed him to forget his circumstances for a while.

While there, Fenris struck up a friendship with Dorian. It began because Fenris felt he knew what to expect from a Tevinter Altus, and continued because they both genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. It helped that Dorian had a better selection of wines than the dwarf barkeep. They often spent evenings sitting at a table, sharing wine and stories, and quietly reading.

Fenris had been surprised to learn that Dorian, too, could see color. “I must admit to being somewhat underwhelmed,” Dorian confided to him. “From the way people carry on and on, I was expecting explosions and choirs of angels from the Golden City. Instead it’s… well, it’s interesting, I suppose,” he finished with a shrug, pouring them both more wine.

Fenris frowned slightly, waiting for Dorian to provide him with the more pertinent details. When Dorian simply went back to his book, Fenris decided to simply ask. “Who, then?”

“Who, when?”

Fenris raised an eyebrow at him, assuming he was being intentionally obtuse for some inexplicable ‘Vint-y reason. “You are color-sighted, therefore you have met your soulmate. Who is it?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea!” Dorian exclaimed with a strange sort of cheer.

Fenris almost fumbled his wine glass.

His eyes still firmly fixed on the inscrutable handwriting in the book before him, Dorian continued, “If Varric told you about the destruction of Haven, then you know how exciting my arrival was. At some point between barely making it to Haven in time to warn the Inquisition of their imminent doom,” he said, gesturing to one side, “and running from ancient darkspawn magisters and red lyrium monsters,” he pointed to the floor at his feet and glanced at Fenris to make sure he was watching, “and climbing over the entire Frostback mountain range, losing toes and fingers to frostbite in the glaciers,” he punctuated this exaggeration by wiggling his ten, intact fingers at Fenris, “I realized that I was seeing color. Imagine! I didn’t think it actually happened.” Finished with the theatrical gesturing, Dorian drained his full glass of wine and refilled it.

Dorian had finished that glass, refilled it again and taken two modest sips by the time Fenris found his voice. “You have a soulmate,” Fenris asked slowly, “and you do not know who it is?”

Dorian waved his free hand dismissively. “I met eyes with dozens of people between my arrival at Haven and my chromatic epiphany. He could be any of them.” Dorian paused then, gazing into the middle distance.

Fenris shook his head in bewilderment. “I don’t understand. Seeing color is not merely about the sight; you have an opportunity to know the other half of yourself,” Fenris leaned forward, frowning earnestly at Dorian. “How can you not pursue this? How--” Fenris stopped, suddenly aware of what he was saying, and scowled at Dorian’s eloquently raised eyebrow. “It is _not_ the same,” he insisted into his wineglass.

Dorian said nothing, but in such a way that he spoke volumes. For many minutes they sat in silence, each absorbed in their own thoughts.Then Dorian seemed to come back to himself, saying distantly, “Indeed. You know who you have now. I wouldn’t know where to start looking.” Then he turned to Fenris with a genial smile. “But really,” he said lightly, “who has time to do the searching? How awkward would that be--’Excuse me, do you happen to see if this samite-and-ram leather enchanter armor clashes with my eyes?’” Dorian rolled those grey eyes and drained his glass again. “I’m far too busy for that nonsense.”

Fenris said nothing and frowned when Dorian refilled his glass once more.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our next chapter, Anhaar comes to Skyhold to knock some sense into Fenris, and the promised happy ending.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anhaar arrives at Skyhold and talks to Fenris. 
> 
> Also I accidentally lied about this being the last chapter. Trevelyan and Fenris talk and begin reconciliation in the lest chapter.

 

 

Cullen stared at the vial of lyrium, a tiny, ornamental vessel that he filled from the last sixteenth-draught he ever took. It was too small an amount to be of any use or any danger, and he’d kept it in his pocket and now in his desk to look at from time to time. It reminded him of the price of complacency and blind obedience, of the things he had done and allowed to be done when he had been bound to it. It was a goad to his addiction, a symbol he could confront to prove his dedication, if only to himself. It was a reminder to do better. Cassandra said it was an example of his penchant for self-torment.

It was the first color he ever knew for certain was blue.

Turning it in his hand, he wondered if some of the Templars had unwittingly begun the journey of becoming Red Templars simply because, to the grey-sighted, the blue and red looked nearly the same. How many simply hadn’t known that they were consuming something different until it was too late?

Templars had no greater proportion of soul-bound members than any other population, but those who had seen their soulmate and were color-sighted were most often sent away to hunt apostates in the wild rather than guarding a Circle. Cullen frowned. Most of the Templar Hunters he’d known had come into their color-sight shortly after being posted at a Circle, actually, and then promptly sent away, into the field.

He sighed heavily and put the token of lyrium away. A moment later he heard quick steps approaching and a runner shoved open the door. “C’mmander,” she reported in a thick southeast Ferelden accent.

“Report.”

“Th’Inquisitor’s back. ‘E’s got company. A Vashoth ‘n a mabari.”

He stood and repeated incredulously, “A Vashoth and a mabari?”

She nodded. “Mus’ be friendly, so we’re no’ puttin’ up extra guard.”

Cullen nodded and automatically buckled on his sword. The runner continued, a smile clear in her voice, “Can’t be too dangerous ‘f ‘e’s got a mabari with ‘im.”

Cullen pinned the runner with a look and she subdued her smile and nodded seriously. “Dismissed,” he said. He waited for her retreat before smiling and ruefully shaking his head.

When he had gone down the stairs to the gate, Trevelyan was complaining about needing a week-long nap, Vivienne was politely encouraging him to take his time in the bath first, Sera has already larked off, but Bull was deep in conversation with the other Qunari. There was, indeed, a beautiful white-and-brindle mabari sitting placidly at their feet. As they passed, Trevelyan gave Cullen a nod that meant ‘ _bath now, debrief later.’_

“Commander!” Bull said heartily, beckoning him over as though he weren’t already on his way to join them. The Tal-Vashoth gestured at his new companion, a male qunari Bull’s height with dark grey skin, bluish eyes, tightly braided black hair and two metallic (copper? bronze?) horn stumps that might have swept back if they hadn’t been sawn off a few inches out from his skull. “Anhaar here joined us this morning on the road up to Skyhold. He’s from the community Fenris and Hawke established.”

Cullen nodded in greeting. Before he could do more, Anhaar said, “I am pleased to meet you, Commander, but the Iron Bull has been telling me what happened, and I need to see Fenris.”

 

* * *

 

Fenris was only a little tipsy as he walked the less-traveled corridors and staircases from the Library to the Lower Courtyard and barn. ‘Only a little’, however, was enough that he was caught completely off guard by the dog that launched itself at him, nearly sending him back down the barn stairs.

“ _Fasta vass,_ dog!” Fenris swore automatically, trying with limited success to keep the animal from licking his face. “Cease your...your…” his voice trailed off and he gently grabbed the beast’s head, looking carefully at the brown and white patterning. “Barkspawn?”

“She’s been insufferable since you left,” a familiar voice complained from across the room.

Fenris looked up, releasing Barkspawn and not pulling away when she enthusiastically licked his hands. “Anhaar. What are you doing here?” He wasn’t as ungrateful as he sounded, but he couldn’t conceive of any reason for Anhaar to be at Skyhold. He never expected to see anyone from that part of his life again. And with Hawke’s dog?

Anhaar leaned forward on the blue-blanketed cot. It was strange and reassuring to see the steady contrast between Anhaar’s grey skin and his _Aveline copper_ horn stumps, between his green eyes and blue-painted lips, his green-and-grey tunic and the familiar barn colors behind him. “I came to see you, return your dog, and join the Inquisition,” he replied. Fenris tensed when Anhaar straightened his spine and rested his palms lightly on his knees, the position he habitually took when he was about to say something provocative. “It turns out I’m accustomed to following you and your soulmates.”

Fenris bared his teeth in a snarl. Barkspawn growled as well, but her growl tapered off to a high whine when she followed Fenris’ glare and realized Fenris was snarling at Anhaar. She lifted a paw to his leg and looked between the two men, clearly confused at to why they were threatening their friend.  Fenris pushed her insistent paw away.

“ _Fenhedis!”_ Fenris moved stiffly to his cot and flung himself on it. “Not you, as well!”

“How long has it been? Since you met him?”

“I don’t know.” Fenris didn’t want to know. It didn’t matter.

“You left to go after Hawke six weeks ago. Bull tells me you’ve been in Skyhold for a little more than a month.” Anhaar’s voice was steady, reasonable.

Fenris wrestled his frown into a sneer. “And what else did Bull tell you, I wonder?” He said it scathingly, spitting out sarcasm, preferring to antagonize his friend rather than consider his-- ugh.

Of course Anhaar ignored that the question was rhetorical and intended to end the conversation. “He told me that your first meeting was a tragedy of poor timing. He told me that Trevelyan has made overtures, which you have rejected. He told me that, as far as he knew, you hadn’t talked to anyone about the matter.”

Fenris snorted. “As though talking to someone would fix this mistake.”

“Talking to someone could fix your misperception of it _being_ a mistake at all.”

Fenris felt a thorny knot of desperation lodged in his chest. His next breath was suddenly, humiliatingly, a sob. He dug his nails into his forearms and forced his breathing to steady. Anhaar politely pretended that he hadn’t heard Fenris’ embarrassing loss of composure, instead moving things around on his cot and the shelf nearby too loudly for his occupation to be unintentional.

Barkspawn didn’t have Anhaar’s instinct for tact and hauled herself onto Fenris’ cot, straddling his body and whining anxiously at him. Fenris held out for almost a full minute, finally petting her reassuringly and, with effort, disguising another sob as a resigned sigh.

“And to think I’d forgotten how annoying you are,” Fenris complained at her, satisfied that his voice did not shake. He’d said such things for years. It had annoyed Hawke far more than it had Barkspawn, who had somehow always known that Fenris wasn’t serious. “And of course it is a mistake,” he continued derisively. “Whoever heard of someone having more than one soulmate?”

Fenris could almost _hear_ Anhaar’s slow blink of surprise. “Frankly, I’m surprised at how many people haven’t.”

Unable to listen to this absurdity lying down, Fenris pushed at Barkspawn until she got off of him and sat on his cot, looking flatly at Anhaar. “Soul- _mate._ One.”

“Or…” Anhaar drew out the word, “soul- _mates,_ plural. I was raised by a triad.”

“What?”

Anhaar nodded. “An elf, a dwarf, and another Vashoth.”

“Sounds like the beginning of a joke.”

“That’s what they called me--their little joke,” Anhaar smiled faintly, and Fenris was unsure whether he was being serious or not. “Someone can have multiple soulmates, in succession or even at once. I don’t think it’s as common as the usual pairs, or maybe people keep quiet about them because most soul bonds are romantic and most people practice monogamy,” he shrugged. “But finding another soulmate after one has died isn’t a mistake or an impossibility; it’s--”

“She does not look the same,” Fenris interrupted, looking critically at Barkspawn. She tilted her head inquisitively at him. “Is she unwell? Are you feeding her?”

Anhaar had resumed his _‘I know you’re deflecting, but I’m going to keep pushing’_ pose. “She misses the two of you, of course, but she’s eating fine. Why do you ask?”

“Look at her!”

Anhaar looked obligingly at the mabari and then at Fenris, a question clear in his green-ish eyes.

Fenris gestured. “She is not the same color! This, this _brown_ , this is not the right brindle, too flat and dull!” Fenris ran his hands over her muscular sides, as though feeling for something wrong. “If she is not unwell, and she is not the same color as she was when...” ( _when Hawke was alive)_ “...when I last saw her, then it is proof that my--that this bond with Trevelyan is a mistake. That it is wrong. Am I to accept something lesser? Some misguided consolation prize for Hawke’s loss?” Barkspawn made a sharp, gruff noise at him and Fenris realized suddenly that he’d tightened his grip on the loose skin of her ruff. He released his grip and lightly pet her soft fur, and she licked his hand once in forgiveness. “It is a mistake!”

Solemnly, Anhaar shook his head. “Not a mistake, Fenris. Incomplete.”

 

* * *

 

 _Incomplete_.

Anhaar’s declaration rattled around in Fenris’ head long after he had left the barn to explore Skyhold. A full week later, sitting on a rafter beam high above the ground floor of the barn, Fenris stared at the sepia hues in the dusty middle distance. _Incomplete._

What if Anhaar was correct?

Fenris concentrated on his life before Kirkwall, before Hawke, when he was bound--first by chains, then by pain-wrought conditioning, then by bleak revenge. For all that it was called a soul- _bond,_ Fenris had never felt held back or limited by his connection with Hawke. The ties that bound them together cast them forth to greater potential together instead of anchoring him to something he despised.

Or perhaps they _were_ anchored, but the anchor was safety instead of ballast, security that gave him--them--the confidence to soar and know they’d always have a safe landing with each other.

His gut churned and bile soured the back of his throat. Hawke was the first person to whom Fenris had ever freely declared his loyalty. How could he spit on that, ignore it in favor of a stranger? With a bitter twist of his lips, he realized that every time he opened his eyes and looked at color, even if it were the wrong colors, half-color, he was betraying Hawke. For a split second he entertained the mad idea to claw out his eyes.

He did not _want_ this; he did not _want_ Trevelyan! But the man kept occupying his thoughts, and try as he might, Fenris hated him less and less. Trevelyan had done him the courtesy of leaving him alone, and accepting that as an intentional courtesy instead of simply what was right seemed to have been the first step in acknowledging the possibility that he could be--

_No._

No. What about Dorian? Dorian was fine without knowing or acknowledging his soulmate; how would the mage even determine who it was, really? If someone knew the circumstances of Dorian’s sight, knew when it had happened, then they could manipulate him, pretend to be their soulmate, to any number of malicious ends! What a flawed and stupid system! He and Dorian were better off, Dorian even better than he, because…because...

Fenris remembered the empty bottles, the wine glasses filled higher and higher each time he was with Dorian, the sunken skin under his eyes that -if one got close enough- cosmetics could not conceal, the bleakness underneath the snark and the resignation under the cheer. No, Dorian was not better off.

And if Dorian were not better off ignoring his soulmate’s call, perhaps Fenris was not, either.

Right after his mind had articulated the thought, Fenris’ head started pounding as though something within him writhed, pulled between two opposing forces yet somehow constrained within his skull. He clutched blindly at his head. He knew he needed to go to Trevelyan, and yet he knew he could never be disloyal to Hawke. He knew he loved Hawke and he knew that he lov-- _could_ love Trevelyan. His pull to Hawke was made of memories and pride and stubbornness and it was eroding, fraying against the pull to Trevelyan which itself was weakening day by day under the onslaught of his obstinance and bitterness and the ache of unacknowledged _acceptance._

His head hurt. His heart _hurt._ He knew that if he did not make a decision, there would be nothing tying him to anything anymore, no chain and no anchor. Nothing. He broke out in a cold sweat at the thought, and shivered hard when a breeze chilled him further. How ironic that he, who had fought and railed for years against slavery and bondage, would be frightened half out of his wits at the prospect of being bound to no one.

When he opened his eyes again, his blood shone as bright and saturated as Trevelyan’s had that terrible day, flowing sluggishly from the wounds he had unwittingly dug in his scalp with his gauntleted fingers and dripping into the wooden beam. Fenris yearned to go to Trevelyan to make amends and he had climbed halfway down the support beam to the third floor before the stubbornest part of him remembered that blood was Hawke’s color, _Hawke’s war-paint,_ and not this, this...not _him._

Something groaned under his hand and Fenris looked, alarmed, at the chunk of wood he’d prised from the rail. The newly-exposed grain was brighter, almost gold, against the more weather-worn and battered exterior wood. He could almost hear Hawke joking about it being a metaphor.

Sometimes Hawke said things as though they were jokes, when really they were not.

 

* * *

 

“We have to do something.”

“Do you think we do not know that?”

“It’s worse, somehow. You didn’t see Ginger this morning, Seeker! He was just, just…” Varric held his hands apart helplessly. “Just sitting and staring. Took me a few minutes to snap him out of it. What if he does that in the field?”

“I am open to suggestions!”

Someone cleared their throat beside them, and they looked at Anhaar.

“Anhaar, you have spoken with Fenris?”

He nodded solemnly. “Several times.”

Varric sighed. “And with as much success as the rest of us, apparently. Great.”

Anhaar gently patted Varric’s shoulder. “All is not lost. I think I know what will work now.”

“You have an idea?” Cassandra actually leapt to her feet.

“I have an idea,” he confirmed with a strange smile, “but before I begin, I wondered if I could have some of the healing potions from the infirmary.”

Cassandra frowned. “Certainly we can spare a few, yes,” she allowed, “but why--”

“And perhaps one restoration potion?” Anhaar asked, holding up the golden bottle and waving it slightly.

Cassandra nodded. Varric asked, “Is...this connected to your idea, Stormy?”

“Yes.”

“You know you can’t potion away a thing like this.”

“I know,” Anhaar said, beginning to turn away. “The potions are for me. Just a precaution!” he reassured over his shoulder.

“You are planning to become injured?” Cassandra asked, her bafflement clear.

“It’s a distinct possibility,” he called back pleasantly, walking down the stairs to the lower courtyard without further explanation.

Varric and Cassandra looked at each other for a moment, then followed. Anhaar was at the doors by the time they were in sight of the barn, swigging the golden restoration potion and tossing the empty bottle to a bemused Blackwall. They stopped outside the barn door and waited for Blackwall to walk out and join them.

“Any idea what that’s about?” the Warden asked.

“Something to do with Fenris,” Cassandra ventured dubiously, “but he did not explain further.”

Varric scratched his chin. “Yeah, I’m not sure what he’d need healing potions for… I mean,” he laughed, “it’s not like he’s gonna--”

White light exploded from the barn just before a splintering crash echoed through the courtyard and a muscular grey body crashed through the second-story wall.

Somehow Anhaar landed in a rolling crouch and picked up a few poles from a pile that awaited fitting for spearpoints. Fenris jumped out of the hole he’d made in the barn and landed lightly on his feet, still glowing. Anhaar, sparkling faint gold from the potion, threw some of the poles at him before taking one in each hand. Varric could hear Cassandra’s shouting and Blackwall’s retreating footsteps, gone to get the Commander, and he himself was frozen with indecision. Anhaar sure seemed like he’d had a plan, but Varric realized with a sudden chill that he had no idea how capable Anhaar was, or if Anhaar even knew about Fenris’ abilities.

With a hoarse cry Fenris caught two of the poles Anhaar had thrown at him and brought them both down in one blow towards Anhaar’s head, but the Vashoth easily stepped out of the way and smacked Fenris across the back, an insultingly light blow. Snarling and glowing, Fenris whirled and thrust with one of the poles, and Anhaar swept it aside.

“Well?” Anhaar demanded. One of his poles snapped in half while blocking another blow from Fenris. “Is it?”

“Fuck. _Off!”_ Fenris shouted.

Anhaar dodged another blow with ease and repeated, “Is it? Is this what Hawke would have wanted?”

Varric’s irreverent exclamation was drowned out by Fenris’ anguished scream of rage and he looked around for help, but everyone else in the courtyard had fled and Cassandra, at his side, looked as stunned as he felt. Her hand was on her sword but she hadn’t drawn it.

“All the time we spent together, Fenris, and I only ever saw Hawke want your happiness,” Anhaar shouted.

“You have _no right!”_ Fenris cried in response, lunging at his opponent without any of his usual grace. In fact, Fenris did not look well at all.

“You know Trevelyan is bound to you; you _know_ that you don’t have to be alone! Is it your pride then?” Anhaar whacked one of Fenris’ poles out of his hand and threw down his own broken one so that they each held theirs like a staff, two-handed, circling each other. “If you had died and Hawke had lived, would you want _this_ for--”

“NO!”

A flurry of blows exchanged between them, lightning-fast, and among them more of Anhaar’s angry, taunting questions. “Would you be glad that Hawke ignored another chance for happiness?” Sharp thwacks echoing against stone walls. “Ignored anything that might have taken your place after you were dead?” More splintering wood, a painful-sounding thump as one of Fenris’ wild and desperate blows landed. “Would you rejoice in Hawke’s slavish loyalty to a dead man, ignoring friends--” Meaty impacts, fists against flesh-- “ignoring fate--” they were wrestling now, Fenris trying to withdraw far enough to land another blow and Anhaar preventing it, muscling Fenris’ arms to his torso-- “drowning in grief and guilt, waiting as they turned into resentment and hatred--” teeth snapping shut on empty air-- “of _you--”_ grunts of effort-- “for dying and leaving--”

Varric didn’t hear the rest of Anhaar’s terrible words because Blackwall had returned with Cullen, Bull, and several of the Chargers.

Cullen hissed as he took in the scene. “Maker’s breath! Varric, do we...”

Varric shook his head, even though Cullen never finished his question. Keeping his eyes on the two, he replied, “Weird as it looks, I don’t think they’re actually hurting each other.”

Bull whistled with admiration. “Hot. Damn.”

Cassandra scoffed. “Varric, you cannot be serious! Look at--”

“He’s not using his lyrium, Seeker!” Varric protested. “Fenris could have torn out Anhaar’s heart a dozen times by now.”

“Is one of them trying to make a point, then?” Blackwall hazarded.

They turned their full attention back to the fight in front of them. Fenris had squirmed free and repeatedly threw himself fist-first and Anhaar who, every single time, batted him away. “Why, Fenris?”

Fenris kicked at him but Anhaar caught his ankle in his grey grip and tugged, sending the elf sprawling.

“Why do you torment yourself?”  Fenris kicked at Anhaar’s knee and Anhaar bent it in the direction of the blow, kneeling down on the other and hauling Fenris up in a neck-lock. “Why do you torment _him,_ someone who could help you! Would that make Hawke proud?” With a heartbreaking roar of denial Fenris finally used his lyrium to phase through Anhaar’s hold.

He only made it a few staggering steps before rematerializing and Anhaar surged toward him, knocking Fenris back to the ground.  

“Is it because you weren’t there when Hawke died?”

Fenris wrenched himself to his feet long enough to howl, “I should have been there!” His voice was so rough with emotion and fatigue that it was difficult to understand him.

“Well, you weren’t!” Anhaar bluntly retorted, shoving Fenris--Varric was amazed the elf allowed it!--and continuing relentlessly, “Do you think you abandoned h--” Fenris punched Anhaar in the face. “Hawke made a choice! It wasn’t up to you!”

In their struggle they tore up dirt and clods of grass with their feet, grappling and snarling, grunting with effort.

“Is that why you deny and ignore Trevelyan now, because you can’t abandon what you never claim?” Anhaar had grabbed Fenris in a hold again and they crashed to the ground. “It doesn’t work like that, you selfish coward!”

Anhaar’s arms were solidly wrapped around Fenris’ torso, and his legs held the elf’s to the ground. Fenris struggled wildly, clawing and cursing to no apparent effect. Narrowly avoiding a broken nose when Fenris threw his head back, Anhaar cried, “Think about what you are doing, Fenris!”

Fenris screamed behind clenched teeth and strained--somehow--even harder against Anhaar’s grip. Cullen stepped forward and Varric raised a hand to stop him. A door somewhere slammed open and Fenris went completely still, staring wide-eyed at something above them.

Anhaar followed Fenris’ arrested gaze to Trevelyan, who stood immobile even when the door beside him rebounded and hit him. He stared back at his soulmate as though unaware of anything else in the world.

“Accepting Trevelyan doesn’t mean you’re rejecting Hawke,” Anhaar said urgently. “It doesn’t, Fenris; _I swear it!”_

A terrible, tense pause where everything felt suspended, and Fenris went suddenly limp, all the fight purged from him and the stress of weeks of struggle leaving him utterly drained. He slumped, unconscious, in Anhaar’s slowly-relaxing grip. On the stairs above them, Trevelyan’s knees buckled involuntarily in a sympathetic response and he slid weakly to the stone floor. Cassandra and Blackwall rushed up the steps to him.

Varric shook his head in disbelief as he approached Anhaar, who sat, breathing heavily, on the trampled ground. Fenris’ head was in his lap. “You are either the bravest or the stupidest person I have ever met, goading Broody like that!” Varric said, “I don’t know if I’m impressed or appalled.”

Anhaar shrugged with effort and opened his mouth to speak but a different voice rose.

“He was all knotted up, trying to find a way back but he thought the open door wasn’t a door. He thought the only way out was back, and back was impossible, unthinkable, and he wanted and didn’t want and wanted to not want because before he wanted, he hadn’t wanted anything else, ever. He couldn't imagine what he couldn’t imagine,” Cole said, looking sadly at Fenris’ unconscious body and then at Anhaar. “You broke the wall down. You made _him_ break the wall down. It’s not about the door. He’ll be able to see now.”

Anhaar nodded slowly and gently moved Fenris’ head to lay on the grass. “Yeah, what he said.” With a groan, he began getting to his feet and accepted the hand Iron Bull offered to him. He dusted splinters of wood and blades of crushed grass off of his clothing. “I need to get him back upstairs,” he said absently, rubbing a bruise already forming on his chin.

Bull cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh, after that…”

Anhaar looked tired, but did a double-take at Iron Bull. He waited expectantly.

“Wanna go get a drink? Or...something?” Bull invited with a suggestive grin.

“Oh, for the love of the Maker…” Cullen sighed, head in his hand.

With  a smile, Anhaar slowly looked Bull up and down, considering while he caught his breath. He nodded decisively and said, “Something. Yes. And a drink.”

“Please take care of Broody _before_ ‘something’-ing,” begged Varric.

 

* * *

 

Fenris slowly found himself unwillingly dragged--again--back to consciousness with a headache.

“Can we _not_ make me sitting at your bedside waiting for you to wake up from traumatic injuries a thing, please?” 

Fenris grimaced and gingerly touched his head. “I can make no promises.”

“Figures,” Varric muttered. They sat together in silence for a time. For all that Varric seemed to talk incessantly, Fenris had to admit that his friend knew when not to speak with him. He looked at the now-familiar painting on the wooden walls of the barn. They remained the same unsatisfying blue, green, and white, but Fenris no longer felt any bitterness towards them. They were just colors.

“Anhaar?” he asked.

“Bruised, but fine. Went for drinks with Bull. Might have different bruises tomorrow. How do you feel?”

“Exhausted. Hollow, like…” Fenris did not know how to proceed. He slowly sat up and held his head in his hands. “I… should speak with him, shouldn’t I?” he asked softly.

After a surprised moment, Varric said, “I’d like it if you did.”

Fenris nodded. “He is a good man?”

“Yeah, he’s alright,” Varric confirmed in the off-handed way that Fenris knew really meant _‘I would go to the Deep Roads for this man and only bitch about it in every_ other _breath’._ “Hawke liked him.”

Fenris nodded again. ‘That means… a lot, actually.”

Varric nudged Fenris’ ankle with his boot. With laughter in his voice, he said,“Besides, you know what Hawke’d say: ‘Damn, that ass--”

Fenris finished the oft-heard praise with him, “'--is fiiiiiine!’” and chuckled. It felt strange. How long had it been since he laughed?

“He’s not seeing colors quite right, either, you know,” Varric confided after a while. “The three of us were arguing about Buttercup’s pants and Ruffles’ shirt being different colors. _They_ were wrong, by the way.”

Fenris frowned. “Is Buttercup the elf with cookies and the messy haircut?”

“Sera, yeah.”

“And Ruffles is the Antivan who is too sweet and kind to be an ambassador?”

“It’s all part of her cover, Broody. And yes, that’s Josephine.”

“Varric, Josephine’s shirt and Sera’s leggings _are_ the same color. Varric!” he insisted when the dwarf emphatically shook his head and rolled his eyes. “They are different fabric, but they are not different colors.”

Varric scoffed and looked at Fenris with tolerant frustration. Then he leaned in and said conspiratorially, “They are if you’ve accepted your soulmate, dumbass. Even the grey-sighted can tell the difference.”

While Varric leaned back in his chair and picked up a pad of paper, Fenris considered, and decided that it was unlikely that Varric was lying as some strange joke. “Is that so?” he asked.

“Mm-hmm,” Varric affirmed, scribbling something down. “Makes me wonder who Curly is ignoring.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the end! Hope you enjoy.

 

Fenris had wanted to leave bed and search for Trevelyan straight away, but Varric insisted he eat something first, because ‘toppling over doesn’t count as communicating, Broody. Eat, or drink a potion.” Varric hadn’t asked why he was suddenly impatient to do something he’d avoided like the Blight for weeks, now. He probably assumed that Fenris had finally had enough, or was so relieved at his change of heart that he didn’t question it further.

If Fenris was being honest with himself, he feared that if he delayed, he would lose his resolve.

According to Varric, Fenris had only been unconscious for a couple of hours. At this time in the afternoon, Trevelyan would likely be consulting in the War Room with Josephine or in the Library.

Fenris frowned at the thought of crossing the yards or entering the Great Hall, enduring peoples’ stares. “Is there a back way?” he asked hopefully.

Varric grinned. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Down the barn stairs, across the training ground, up the stone steps, through the strange audience hall past the kitchens, up some more stairs and Varric stopped just before the door to Josephine’s office. Fenris could hear Trevelyan’s voice and shamelessly pressed his pointed ear against the wooden door.

“...than the response from Gaspard,” said Trevelyan.

“You do not need to make a decision now, Inquisitor.”

“Thank the Maker for small favors.”

“Inquisitor, are you sure you are well?”  

Fenris frowned when Trevelyan didn’t answer right away.

“I feel…” Trevelyan said after a long pause. “I-- It feels like something’s changed.”

Fenris stared at the door, willing Trevelyan to say more. Josephine apparently agreed, for she asked, “How do you mean?”

Somehow Fenris knew Trevelyan was shrugging. “I might be imagining it, but I don’t feel like everything’s hopeless anymore? Personally, I mean; I’m still pretty sure we’re fucked in Emprise. But I have this urge to go to him again--”

“Broody, if you lollygag any more, I’m going to tell _everyone_ what happened after you drank Bethany’s conscription wine,” Varric threatened in a whisper.

Fenris replied with a rude gesture and pushed open the door. He took two steps into the room and stopped. Trevelyan rose from his perch at the corner of Josephine’s rosewood desk and stared at him, his brown eyes wide with surprise. As they looked at each other, Josephine began to rise and say something, her brow creased with concern, but looked past them (to Varric, presumably) and closed her mouth.

Fenris knew he should say something.

Trevelyan beat him to it. “Fenris,” he said in a hoarse voice, his pale fingers nervously tugging on the dark blue of his tunic..

Fenris swallowed. “Inquis--”

Varric coughed loudly behind him. Fenris resisted the urge to turn and snarl at him. Josephine shot a piercing look down at the dwarf.

“Trevelyan,” Fenris began again. “I… I wondered if I could have a moment of your time.” He felt his ears heating up. “To talk.” This time he _did_ turn around and glared at Varric, who was wearing an expectant and all-too-smug grin. “Alone.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Josephine, her hands rising to cover her mouth. “Of course; I’ll just gather my things and--”

“No, no, Josie,” Trevelyan interrupted, waving a hand at her but keeping his eyes on Fenris. “We’ll go to my quarters. If that’s alright?” he asked carefully.

Fenris nodded gratefully.

Trevelyan gestured at the door to the Great Hall and Fenris quailed a little, loathe to expose himself to the room crowded with Orlesians and others. Fortunately Varric decided to be useful and said with a wink, “I’ll make a diversion to give you two some cover.”

Fenris paid no attention to what Varric said to draw attention to him in the Great Hall. A small part of him noticed and wondered why Josephine was wiping her eyes with a yellow plaidweave handkerchief. Mostly he kept his attention on Trevelyan, following him upstairs to an enormous suite.

At the top of the stairs in the room, they both stopped. “Would you care for some wine?” Trevelyan offered.

“Yes, please,” Fenris immediately replied, empathizing with the relief on Trevelyan’s face. As he strode to the cluttered desk, Fenris looked at the understated reds and golds and blues in the Marcher-styled room, the well-used armor on its stand in the corner, the half-made bed. When he lowered his eyes to the floor and saw the faded hues of the rugs he froze, stomach cramping with sudden fear, and looked up at Trevelyan so fast that he felt a pain in his neck. Trevelyan leaned over a stack of opened presents, apparently fishing out the second of a pair of Antivan-looking wine glasses with dubiously green glass dolphins forming the stem. Trevelyan himself was comfortingly bright, his copper-red hair glowing in a shaft of filtered sunlight, pink on his freckled cheeks from emotion or exertion, the blue of his tunic both darker and richer, like late twilight. Colorful.

Fenris moved his head so that he could see both Trevelyan and the disquieting carpet at his feet. He sighed with relief. His vision wasn’t changing again; the rug was just really fucking old.

“A-ha!” Trevelyan triumphed, holding a second dolphin glass aloft. Fenris smiled and stepped around the greyed-out rug to Trevelyan’s desk. He stood awkwardly a few feet away while Trevelyan opened the bottle of wine and, after a moment’s hesitation, poured two generous helpings.

Fenris noticed that his hand was shaking as he accepted the offered glass. When had he started trembling? He should stop that.

He cast about for a topic. “Is Anhaar still with the Iron Bull?”

Trevelyan swallowed his sip. “Yeah, last I heard, Bull was offering to show Anhaar his dragon-bone maul.” He paused and shared a small, rueful smirk. “I’m still not sure of that’s a metaphor or if it’s just foreplay.”

Fenris didn’t understand, but hummed acknowledgement as if he had.

Dammit. Where had his resolve gone? “I owe you an apology,” he heard himself say to the grey stones at his feet. “Or several.”

In his peripheral vision, he saw Trevelyan lower his wineglass and sigh. He gestured to the couch by the bannister. “Would you care to have a seat?”

Fenris didn’t care whether he sat or stood; there wasn’t a piece of furniture on Thedas that could make this any easier. Still, he walked around the rug again and sat on the over-stuffed wine-colored cushions. It didn’t help.

He cleared his throat. “I… regret my actions upon meeting you. And after meeting you,” he added. “I...I don’t know how to explain or excuse my actions.”

Trevelyan nodded and replied, “I don’t know, after Varric told us that Hawke was your soulmate… I’ve seen what bereavement does to people, Fenris. I don’t think it’s fair for someone to hold that against you.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “You are...uncommonly gracious to someone who ‘beat the face off’ of you.”

Trevelyan slapped a palm to his face and grimaced. “That’s Blackwall who said that, then? Maker, it wasn’t _that_ bad. And, what, you were supposed to go from ‘my soulmate died in another Blighted realm, and I almost die desperately trying to reach them in time’ to ‘Hey! Here’s a shiny new soulmate, so everything’s fixed!’” Trevelyan said the last in a vapidly cheerful voice that made Fenris snort.  “I mean,” he took another sip of wine, “no wonder it took you a while to…” his voice became rougher, “to bear to speak with me.”

Fenris felt a stab of shame, remembering every time he’d coldly, mercilessly cut Trevelyan, spurning every overture. Acting like a magister at summer court, proving their superiority by casual, baseless cruelty. “My behavior was unworthy. For all you say you understand, I wish I had behaved better. You must have felt…” Fenris trailed off, abruptly aware that he had no idea how Trevelyan had felt because he’d worked so hard to avoid him. The stab of shame tore through something behind his stomach and pulsed with his heartbeat.

Trevelyan had been standing arms akimbo at the foot of the bed, but sighed and sat down cross-legged on the mattress, leaning back against the carved bedpost.

“First, I was angry, and hurt, because you hit me rather a lot,” he began, setting the half-full glass down on the floor. Then he rested his hands in his lap and looked directly at Fenris. “Then I was hurt, and _hurt,_ because...because everyone dreams about meeting their soulmate, at least, in my home they do. My family, it’s as though we’re charmed, because almost all of the Trevelyans have encountered their soulmates. My living family is all matched up already; my sister met hers when we were children! Searching and finding, and celebrating the colors… it’s…” he trailed off, looking down and watching his fingertip trace the bright yellow embroidery on the red and brown bedspread. “And even if you can’t be together with your soulmate all the time, or if it takes you time to find them after your sight changes, you still know that there’s _someone_ out there who can make your life so much better _,_ and you were--” Trevelyan’s voice had heightened with emotion, and Fenris felt bewildered and suddenly terribly sad.   What Trevelyan described was so utterly different than what Fenris had known for most of his life.

Trevelyan sighed. “You _hurt_ me, and you didn’t want me. It wasn’t even like that stupid play, where two people begin hating each other, and they both claim to not be able to stand one another, but a comedy of errors keeps bringing them together and in the final conflict, they have to work as one and they declare their love. There weren’t any side-long glances or well-meaning friends trying to prank us into locked rooms together. You were… you were gone, or you were--”

“Cruel,” Fenris supplied, bitterness curling his lip and shame curling his gut.

Trevelyan looked at him, searching his eyes with his brown ones. “Yes. You were cruel. I understand now, why. Though I can’t empathize, I can sympathize. Hawke gone, you near-dead, and I thought I would just be meeting one of Varric’s Kirkwall friends. And I really am sorry; it’s not how I, it’s… it’s not how I would have planned it, insofar as these things can be planned, I mean, it’s--” he shut his mouth and scowled at the bedspread. “What a ridiculous thing to say. It was such shit timing, and there’s no one to blame for that.”

Fenris looked at the translucent red in his glass, shining many hues in the sunlight. “We could blame the magisters,” he offered. “I can find a way to blame them for just about anything.”

Trevelyan snorted into his wine glass and grinned.

“I am sorry,” Fenris said, his voice strangely hollow. He felt hollow, like the magnitude of how he’d behaved had husked out anything he could ever want to offer to someone. He looked back into his wine, wondering why the couch cushion, which had been the same color, now looked more orange compared to the berry-colored wine. He looked straight into Trevelyan’s warm, sable eyes and repeated. “I’m sorry.”

Trevelyan returned his gaze openly, minute flickers in his eyes suggesting that he was searching for something on Fenris’ face. “I accept your apology,” he said softly, “and I offer my own.”

Though Fenris’ cynical mind scowled at the very notion, Fenris _saw_ the colors shift in the room, becoming warmer and deeper and _more_. Trevelyan’s face almost shone with his smile.

Enough. “Does the sunlight always come in so aggressively this time of day, or is Varric’s nonsense about colors correcting actually happening?” he grumbled.

Trevelyan burst out laughing. “Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “It’s the best part! It’s how you _know_!” And he emphasized the last word with a child-like expression of besotted wonder.

“Maker save me from romantic fools,” he complained, but sent a half-smile at Trevelyan, who answered with a grin.

“So, does this mean…” Trevelyan looked down and traced the gold embroidery before him. “Does this mean no more running?”

“No more running from you. I swear. Though...I do not know how to proceed. Hawke and I, we met in a fight and just kept fighting alongside each other. I don’t really remember _how_ we became more, just that we did.”

Trevelyan smiled again. “Want to go to Emprise du Lion and fuck up some Venatori who’ve enslaved villagers to mine Red Lyrium?”

Fenris chuckled. “That may be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make me happy!


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